


don't wanna be no uptown fool

by orphan_account



Series: hot for teacher [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Mordern AU, enjolras is young and rebelious, grantaire is a teacher, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2013-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-05 08:33:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1091817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras takes an art class. I wonder who the teacher could be?</p>
            </blockquote>





	don't wanna be no uptown fool

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lucee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucee/gifts).



> Quick disclaimer: I am aware that isn't how you pronounce Feuilly's name. Grantaire's doing it on purpose for shits and giggles.
> 
> Blame finals.

It's not _completely_ Courfeyrac's fault, Enjolras supposes.

It's just, he was the one who wanted to go bar-hopping in the first place, to "celebrate the mood of the era and relieve our ennui," which mostly meant "wear tight pants and flirt while consuming copious amounts of alcohol because holy shit we survived finals". Enjolras hates bar-hopping, because for one thing, he looks like a seventeen-year-old girl (thank you, Bahorel) so practically everywhere but the Musain cards him and for another, he looks like a seventeen-year-old girl, so inevitably someone starts a fight. Long story short, Coufeyrac is bailing them out at three in the morning and Enjolras has a split lip and a rather impressive bruise forming high on one cheekbone.

Then he gets called to Valjean's office.

Valjean is known for being a tad eccentric and completely terrifying. And, of course, for being rumored to have a torrid, violent love-affair with the head of campus security. But mostly for being terrifying. He told some of the trouble student his _prison_ _stories_.

He looked up and smiled over his desk when Enjolras walked. Enjolras didn't actually quake in his boots, because that would be silly. He did, however, take a steadying breath.

"Have a seat, please." Valjean gestured to a couple chairs facing his desk. Enjolras sat.

"Did you know I used to teach art, Enjolras?"

Enjolras hadn't. He also wasn't sure why they were talking about former teaching careers.

"No," he answered, mentally going over everything he had done wrong academically. It was a lot, now that he thought about it. He had a habit of skipping classes or showing up late when The Greater Good called for it, but he was making all A's. That was good, right?

"Mmm." Valjean smiled slightly, ands folded on the desk. "I did indeed. It was years ago, of course, I had these ridiculous sideburns... Anyways, _after I was released from prison_ \--" (Enjolras shrunk down in his chair, just a little) "--I found that art was incredibly... relaxing. Therapeutic, even. See, it was a healthy release for all this pent-up aggression I had. Do you think I would be amiss to say you have quite a bit of pent-up aggression of your own?"

Enjolras was painfully aware of his bruises.

"...no?"

"No, I wouldn't be amiss, or no, you don't see yourself as having aggression?"

"No, you wouldn't be amiss."

"Good, good. Now, I've taken the liberty of signing you up for an art class after we return from the holiday break. It will not," he assured Enjolras, "affect any of your other classes. It will also not be optional. I expect you show up in the arts center on time Fridays at four, and I expect you to treat it like any of your other classes.”  Valjean leaned over the desk.  “In short, Enjolras, I expect this to provide an incentive for you to stay out of trouble.”

 

“It’s not like I'm being a trouble child because I feel like it,” Enjolras complained to Combeferre and Courfeyrac after consuming what was probably an unhealthy amount of cheap beer.  “I have a _good cause._ ”

“I think it’s more the fact that you’ve been bailed out three times in four months,” Combeferre points out reasonably, because Combeferre is the kind of friend who will be reasonable when you want to be malcontented and drunk. “Which I would also like to avoid see happening again in the future.

“But _The Cause_ ,” Enjolras whined, because The Cause really was important. It was the kind of thing you should be able to _hear_ people capitalizing when they say it.

“The Cause is extremely important,” Courfeyrac agreed, “and we’re the last two people who want to discourage you from it. It’s not like you can’t go to this class and run meetings. I think the professor is a friend of Bahorel’s; maybe he’ll let you off easy.  Besides, you won’t exactly die if you don’t make an A in an extracurricular.”

Enjolras just mumbled and popped open another can.

 

The teacher was late.

The teacher was _late,_ and Enjolras had made absolutely certain to be on time, because it wasn’t like this was the teacher’s fault so he should be respectful and on time. Except, apparently the teacher didn’t agree with that particular sentiment as class had started eight minutes ago and he was nowhere to be seen.

He was halfway through an angry text to Combeferre when a man with messy black hair and a loose skinny tie walked in.

“Apologies, all, I had the worst headache this morning.” He smiled at the room, but seeing as he was pale with dark circles under his eyes and had slightly crooked teeth the gesture looked fairly manic.  “Wow. There are a lot more of you than I was expecting. I'm guessing most of you are here to get the credit for an interior decorating major?” There were a few murmurs of assent from the room. “Fantastic. Welcome to Intermediate Color and Design. First things first, we’re going to go around the room and introduce ourselves. Give your name and a hobby. For example, I'm Grantaire, your teacher, and I enjoy painting.  Though my grandness is arguable, you may call me R.”

Enjolras stifled a laugh.

“Excuse me?” One of the girls in the back of the room raised her hand. “I thought our teacher was Mr… Mr…” she squinted down at her syllabus.

“His name, you will find,” the scruffy man in front said with a slight air of mock pretension, “is pronounced Fi-ooh-ill-lay. Fortunately, that is not _my_ name. Your original teacher has mono, and has been ordered to take it easy for two months. That means I’ll be covering for him until he gets back.”

“We’re all doomed,” a pretty dark-haired girl at the same table as the first one called.

“Shut up, Éponine,” Grantaire said cheerfully. “All right, name game. Who wants to go next?”

The girl who raised her hand was apparently named Euphrasie (“But for the love of God, call me Cosette.”) Enjolras was sitting at a table with Bossuet, his girlfriend, Musichetta, and  a boy named Marius who had on a _Napoleon Dynamite_ shirt.  Enjolras and said his hobby was reading, because it was technically true and Combeferre had warned him about going on rants about sweatshops when first meeting people.

“Lovely to meet you all,” Grantaire said after the last person had finished. He looked down at a piece of yellow notebook paper. “All right. Let’s go over what you need. The only things you really have to provide for yourselves are a 17 by 14 sketchbook and a 24 by 18…”

The class passed quickly, and with surprisingly little art. After all the necessary things had been gone over, the class devolved into random conversation.  Grantaire’s laugh could be heard periodically, loud and warm. It was, Enjolras thought, a rather nice laugh. Enjolras ended up in a fairly stimulating conversation with Marius, who turned out to be a linguistics major, over the role which language plays in societal values.

“But the thing is that language is fluid, right, so words twist into meaning what people _think_ they should mean, regardless of original value,” Marius was saying when Grantaire clapped once and shouted over the different conversations, “Alright! Class is over! Be here next Friday _with_ your materials, or I take points off. Out.”

People dutifully shuffled out of the room. Marius waved and promised to come to a meeting at some point in the future and walked out, talking to Bossuet and Musichetta.

Enjolras was about to follow suit when Grantaire called, “Hold it.”

Enjolras held it, looking over at the teacher, who was standing with the dark-haired girl from earlier.

“You’re the problem child, right? Valjean gave me a heads up.”

Enjolras just nodded, though he wasn’t exactly _pleased_ with Valjean divulging personal information. Well, slightly personal. Not-highly-publicized information.

“Alright. I get this isn’t where you want to be, but I’d appreciate it if you didn’t, you know, make that too glaringly obvious. I am but a poor sub, after all.”

“A poor, oft-hungover sub,” Éponine (whose hobby was apparently crushing her enemies and driving them before her) drily agreed.

“Hush,” Grantaire said over his shoulder. “Anyways, we good?”

“We’re good,” Enjolras said. “Valjean really warned you about me?”

“Well, no. Valjean _told_ me about you, _Bahorel_ warned me about you.”

That was… well. “And what did Bahorel say?”

“Long story short, that you’re a die-hard liberals who’d sacrifice anything for The Cause.”

You could hear him capitalizing it. Something in Enjolras’ chest fluttered slightly.

“I solemnly swear not to turn your class into a rally, o poor substitute.”

“ _Thank_ you,” Grantaire said, his smile wide. It crinkled the skin at the edges of his eyes, which Enjolras could now see were a rather pretty shade of blue. His smile was warm and big like his laugh, which made sense.

Enjolras realized, as his heart did a weird flip-flop-twist maneuver, that this class wasn’t going to be as bad as he thought it would. It was going to be _worse._

**Author's Note:**

> Things I have yet to incorporate:  
> Enjolras gets paint in his hair, because his hair is ridiculous and poofy.  
> There is a lot of sex, including a few rounds that they can never tell Feuilly about as they take place on his desk.  
> Feuilly knows anyways.


End file.
